


the weather outside is frightful (though you're anything but)

by jeannedarc



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fireplaces, Hangover, M/M, Power Outage, Sharing Body Heat, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 23:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannedarc/pseuds/jeannedarc
Summary: There's a snowstorm, a power outage, a fire, and one cute angel ready to help nurse Mark through his hangover. Holiday miracles might just be real.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 10
Kudos: 89
Collections: NCT Rarepair Winter Bingo





	the weather outside is frightful (though you're anything but)

**Author's Note:**

> filling slots: **fireside, blizzard**
> 
> we live in a markyong deficit world and i for one am just here to help.  
> thanks to em for looking over this for me!

There's this wicked snowstorm going on outside, threatening to keep him inside for the rest of eternity, when Mark finally comes to. He isn't particularly pleased about it -- being Canadian doesn't obligate someone to enjoy a literal blizzard, after all -- but the couch beneath him is comfortable and warm, and there's a fire slowly succumbing to its inevitable death in the hearth just a few yards from him.

Outside the window, a foreign tree branch scratches at the glass, clearing a streak of sunlight that peeks in through the white, unfamiliar territory. It catches Mark right in his barely-open eyes. He groans his dissent.

It doesn't occur to him that he doesn't know _whose_ couch this is, being surrounded by unfamiliar and slightly-askew Christmas decorations that only the strongest of holiday terrorists would dare attempt. He knows only that going back to sleep is probably a good idea, so he rolls over, back to the fire, and curls in on himself, trying to absorb whatever warmth he can.

When he wakes a second time -- he's the worst at getting up, and he knows it, gets teased for it literally every day of his life -- there's the sound of clattering in a kitchen he doesn't know. He rolls onto his opposite side, and tucks his folded hands beneath his cheek, trying to breathe life into his unnaturally frigid fingers. "Hello?" he calls out, cracking one eye and peering around curiously.

The entire room is covered in half-full trash bags. Probably recycling. The events of the night prior come back to him, albeit a little more slowly than he'd like. There had been a Christmas-themed rager here last night. He'd paid ten bucks to get completely shwasted on something that tasted faintly of brandy, served out of an old-timey washbin. What connection homemade mixed drinks held to the holiday, Mark doesn't really know, but he _does_ know that he'd slurped down a good four of the concoctions before they all came rushing to him at once.

Some cutie had given him water. He'd been dressed as an elf. Mark had not dressed up at all, which was probably his first mistake.

The thing about waking up in someone else's house, besides the abject mortification about it, is that it can be pretty cosy, all things considered. The fire has been stoked to its full potential and now crackles in the hearth. He watches the flames dance for a long while, content to allow them to lull him back to sleep, his body crying for it. Their beatboxing is accompanied by a low voice singing along to some Christmas carol Mark can't remember the words to. It's nice. Soothing.

His headache, unfortunately, forces him to lie back down. It's a good thing that happens, really, because he needs to be lying down to take down the absolute angel who enters what Mark presumes to be a living room.

"Hey," says the angel, dragging a finger through messy, dye-red hair. He's sweating; the sweat and the bad dye job make it look like he's bleeding from some invisible crown of thorns. Appropriate for the holiday. Must have been cleaning up on his own. Jesus would be proud, or something. "You okay? You've been out most of the morning."

"Yeah, I, uh," and Mark would be lying if he didn't suddenly feel even more dried-out than he had been a moment ago, in the presence of the most beautiful man he's ever seen in his life, but it's more than that. It's that he can't seem to form words that aren't monosyllabic. What if this dude is into smart cookies? Christmas cookies. Christmas party. "You're Taeyong, right?"

And Taeyong just sort of laughs. "Yeah, that's me," he agrees, offering an unopened bottle of water. "The power's out because of the storm. I thought it'd just be easier to let you sleep wherever instead of kicking you out."

"Where's wherever?" he asks, groggy as he cracks into the water given him. "Also, do you have exactly seven hundred aspirin? My head is killing me."

"I'll go get it in a minute," answers Taeyong, a touch too loud. Mark must wince, not that he's all too conscious of himself, a welcome change; Taeyong flinches away, apology in his deep, dark eyes. "Sorry. I, um, I made breakfast. I thought maybe you would want something to soak up that alcohol in your system. Provided you're still drunk. I wasn't, um, watching you or anything. Promise." And there's something so gentle about it that Mark almost sort of takes pity. Almost. "That washtub stuff was wild. I was trying to cut everyone off at two, but no one listens to me, you know?"

"Where's wherever?" Mark asks again, a little more prompting this time. He sits up again, but his body revolts, threatens to heave whatever acid has managed to build back up in his stomach. He lies back against the couch cushions, and Taeyong laughs.

"This is my house. Or, um, my and my roommate's house, but he went home for the holidays really early this morning. Guess it was a long trip or something?" He offers a shrug. He's so fucking cute. Mark is going to die. Or maybe that's the hangover threatening his life. He isn't sure.

It occurs to Mark far too late that Taeyong had mentioned something about the power. "Wait, so there's no electricity? No heat?" Everything's coming to him so slowly. He feels like he may as well be outside. He takes note of the layers in which Taeyong's wrapped, a t-shirt peeking out from beneath a hoodie, both worn under a blanket draped over Taeyong's shoulders like a cape.

"Nope," and Taeyong's mouth pops around the word. "I thought I'd let you sleep while I got everything cleaned up. Hey, I know it's freezing like the world's about to end or something, but I couldn't trouble you to help me move all the trash bags out to the garage once death's no longer coming for you, could I?"

Mark considers this, then figures it's the least he could do. "Yeah, sure," he agrees with a shrug. "You said something about breakfast?" The thought of food both entices and nauseates him, judging by the simultaneous terrifying noises threatening his stomach in this moment. He doesn't know embarrassment the way most people do, but this is definitely one of those moments where shame threatens to strike him down. "Maybe we could have breakfast in here? So you can, um, chill out for a minute."

Taeyong flashes the most beautiful smile. Mark thinks he might faint. "Yeah, that sounds nice."

He disappears to the kitchen, leaving Mark to helplessly sip at his water, until the plastic crunches beneath his fingertips. When Taeyong returns it's with one of those old-fashioned looking serving trays, loaded high with pancakes and bacon and real maple syrup and, God bless him, coffee.

The fire sings to them from its spot in the hearth, and Taeyong is back to singing himself, seemingly in perfect time with it. Mark, for one, is endeared, his little heart parumpumpumming against his ribcage in perfect time with whatever beat Taeyong has offered him in his own song.

Taeyong plops down on the other end of the couch. It's soft. It sinks beneath him, makes him look even smaller than he already is, like he’s a pair of eyes peering out from soft, well-worn leather. "Do you need me to come closer?"

Mark tries a third time to sit up, and it's markedly more successful. The wonders of hydration, he supposes as he inches closer to Taeyong on the couch, totally ignoring the way Taeyong had offered to move in first, in Mark’s own selfish need to draw nearer to this, the new object of his affection. He’s offered his own plate, but it’s an awkwardly quick shuffle in which Mark finds himself confused, and he ends up snatching a sausage link from Taeyong’s instead. With his mouth full, all that he can do is make his apologetic eyes. 

Taeyong laughs and laughs. He’s halfway to raising a bite of pancake to his mouth (Mark, demon that he is, rolls one up and dips it in the cup of syrup Taeyong’s so kindly provided for both of them) when Taeyong’s phone goes off. Worry immediately knots up in him, visible on his face, in the deep pools of his eyes and the careful set of his jaw, and Mark can’t help but worry along with him.

He answers, and Mark jokes, “Hey, I don’t know if I’m into threesomes this early in the morning,” apropros of seemingly nothing, and Taeyong laughs again, harder now, a little tear pricking up in the corner of his eye. The call disconnects; concern replaces the amusement just as quick, Taeyong staring blankly into the screen of his phone like it’s going to have the answers that he can’t come up with himself. 

He raises his weary head Mark’s direction, tucks his feet beneath him, and Mark hadn’t thought he could get more tiny. “Sorry, my roommate. He’s driving home. I worry about him. That car is a death trap.”

Mark offers his condolences by resting his head on Taeyong’s shoulder, but continues to eat regardless. Nothing can stop him trying to cure this illness he’s brought unto himself.

Their breakfast is over too soon, and Mark is just ready to offer to cuddle in front of the fire, take Taeyong’s mind off whatever’s going on with his roomie, when the phone rings again. Taeyong rolls away, leaving Mark a pouting puddle, and ducks out of the room for this one. 

Mark can’t recall recently feeling quite this cold and alone. He hates this, hates how pathetically he watches Taeyong’s retreat, the solid form of his shoulders as he shimmies out the door. “Taeyong?” he asks, but doesn’t get an answer, and though it’s petty of him he’s pleased to interrupt. “Taeyong, what do you want me to do with these dishes?”

He glares resentfully at the tray that has been passed off into his lap. He wants to do something kind, but his body revolts at the thought, and he settles in for the long haul, discontent to be taken care of. He’s Mark Lee, after all. He’s always been best at taking care of himself. What he needs right now isn’t some extraordinary act of caring but rather the attention he hadn’t managed to get last night.

In his head a couple gears click together. Taeyong, sock-footed and with a new layer wrapped around himself, shuffles back into the living room, his phone nowhere in sight. “Were you the one who tried to make sure I stayed hydrated last night?” he asks, the heel of his palm pressed to his temple. “Someone gave me a water… I didn’t drink it, and I don’t remember it very well… those things probably go together.”

Taeyong doesn’t say anything, just takes a seat at the foot of the couch. “That was probably me,” he concedes, gently moving to shove the tray off Mark’s lap and pull him down into the berber in which he’s currently sitting. It’s uncomfortable, grinding into Mark’s ass through his jeans like concrete might, but he neverminds that in favour of sliding to the floor to sit with Taeyong. “Apparently that’s just. What I do, or something. Take care of people.”

The fire crackles, a log collapsing into the coals, beginning to lose its shape in favour of flaring up. Taeyong moves to change that, to rearrange the limbs as he sees fit, but Mark stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s Christmas,” Mark mumbles, “you should take care of yourself instead of everyone else.” And he moves to the fireside to do what Taeyong had intended to, sticking a metal poker into the hearth with intent.

When the fire burns just a few degrees warmer and the fire is something to be observed rather than babysat, Mark crawls back across the floor, head hung, unable to fully and bodily process the notion of being upright. That’s fine. Taeyong doesn’t laugh at him, though Mark is sure that perhaps he should. 

Now back in his rightful spot, he fits an arm around Taeyong’s shoulders, careful not to spook him. Taeyong, though, just slumps against him, tired in a way that Mark is either too young or too hung over to understand. And that’s fine. They don’t need to say a lot, so their accompaniment is the fire, and Mark tries not to ask any questions he’s not allowed. 

Finally, Taeyong says, “I worry about him.”

Mark makes a noncommittal noise in answer.

“I worry that he’s going to go on one of these road trips and end up stranded somewhere and that I won’t have done enough to keep him safe.”

“Is this because of him, or because of you?”

Taeyong answers him with silence.

“I think anyone who can show up to a rager and look after guests they didn’t invite is pretty good about stuff like that. I think you’re doing the best job you can.”

He prays he doesn’t imagine it, that Taeyong shuffles closer, til their hips are touching, til they’re close enough that they might rest their temples upon one another. They don’t, and Mark’s throbbing skull thanks whatever God is listening for that, but Mark wishes there were something else he could do that didn’t involve moving.

“Do you like hot chocolate?” he asks, so quiet he’s not sure he can be heard over the fire. He clears his throat again. “Do you like hot chocolate, Taeyong?”

Taeyong nods, dumb, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I do.”

“Do you have the stuff to make it?” 

“I do.”

“Cool, because as soon as I can move again I’m going to make you some.” Taeyong makes an almost undignified sound meant to signify protest, but Mark just tips his head, gives him a look that doesn’t leave room for questions. “I said I’m going to make you some and I meant it. The old fashioned way. And then we’re going to bake cookies or something, if you have the stuff to do that, because it isn’t fair of you to have this big old house to yourself if you’re stuck in one room.”

Taeyong returns the look, but it’s something that can’t be interpreted, something to which Mark can give no meaning, though he’d like to. “Someone’s going to fall in love with you one day, Mark Lee,” says Taeyong, in his gravest voice.

Mark doesn’t say it, but he hopes that someone is Taeyong. He thinks, given the time but not the entrapment caused by the natural disaster happening just outside, that maybe it could happen.

Then Taeyong snakes his arm around Mark’s waist, giving him an affectionate squeeze, and hope is not dead. 

“Do you drink like that at every party?” he asks, and Mark had been too lost in his reverie to notice the subtle shifting of their positions, nearly jumps when he realises Taeyong’s very pretty lips are _that_ close to his ear.

Mark cracks a grin, tries to fight the shivers that threaten to roil up the curve of his spine. “They say,” he says with a grave timbre that doesn’t suit him at all, “that you’re an alcoholic if you drink every day. Lucky for me and everyone around me, I only drink every night.”

A smooth joke. He’d stolen it from someone, probably. He doesn’t remember. Taeyong giggles anyway, and the feel of his warm breath against the shell of Mark’s ear draws from him the shudder he’d tried in vain to keep at bay.

“Taeyong,” Mark says seriously, slipping his arm between the cage that Taeyong’s have inadvertently made, “I want to kiss you, right, because you look very small and very kissable right now, and because I think you deserve that. But I am also very, very disgusting.”

“You smell like a distillery,” Taeyong says in agreement, earning himself a weak swat.

“But when I’m a human being, can I kiss you?”

Taeyong keeps quiet, making a face that implies he’s thinking about it. Mark screws up his face, prepares for the inevitable rejection. But then Taeyong says, “I would very much like it if you kissed me, once you are a person again, and once all the trash was taken out, and once I felt like less of a bad person.”

“You aren’t a bad person.” Mark takes Taeyong’s hand in his, gives it a little squeeze.

This moment is almost perfect. The snowfall outside has abated momentarily, offering them a thin shim of sunlight that winks into their eyes as they sit like this, close enough to the fire, to one another, to be warm. The blanket on the couch, the one that Mark had awoken to find wrapped around him, makes its way to their huddled frames, and Taeyong holds Mark’s hand under the blanket, thumb jaggedly tracing the shapes of his knuckles.

“You’re cute,” Mark continues, like it needs to be said.

Taeyong hums his song.

The moment is _almost_ perfect, a Christmas card in the making, but then again, it doesn’t have to be. It’s theirs. Later, Mark will take out the garbage, and probably at least _try_ to brush his teeth, and wash away the alcohol seeping from his pores. Taeyong will, of course, remain magnificent. They’ll stay in as long as the weather demands. 

That’s in the future.

For now, though, he just tucks his head back into its cosy spot on Taeyong’s shoulder, and watches the snowstorm build outside, listens to the fire, breathes in the earthy-sweet scent of Taeyong’s shampoo, so close to him that he could swear he might drown in it. 

Not a bad way to come to, he decides, closing his eyes when Taeyong starts to hum again.

**Author's Note:**

> as always:   
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/appiarian)  
> [cc](http://curiouscat.me/chahakyeon)


End file.
